They say that the ‘camera never lies’. Frankly, this is shocking news that makes me want to throw away my driver’s licence, passport and every other piece of photo ID in my possession. I’m yet to see a Cannon 55D or Nikon D4 strapped to a polygraph machine, so I can’t vouchsafe as to their honesty or otherwise. But I will say this – the camera may well never lie, but it is sometimes economical with the truth.
They say that the ‘camera never lies’. Frankly, this is shocking news that makes me want to throw away my driver’s licence, passport and every other piece of photo ID in my possession. I’m yet to see a Cannon 55D or Nikon D4 strapped to a polygraph machine, so I can’t vouchsafe as to their honesty or otherwise. But I will say this – the camera may well never lie, but it is sometimes economical with the truth.
If cameras are to be believed, I spend at least three quarters of my waking existence with my eyes firmly shut. It’s almost as though the proportion spent blinking and wide-eyed have been wholly reversed. This, of course, is absolute nonsense. At worst, it’s 50/50. How I manage to arrive anywhere without colliding with a multitude of objects is a mystery at least on par with the decision to bring back ‘Big Brother’ to television.
Looking at the family photo album, it’s clear that it has always been this way. Nearly all the pictures show my eyelids flat-lining with nary a trace of pupil to be seen. When filling out a questionnaire that asks what colour my eyes are, it’s no use checking a photograph. Instead, I routinely answer ‘not applicable’. In the unlikely event that my eyes were open for a photo, you’d probably say they were ‘red’ rather than ‘blue’.
Given how long I spend with my eyes closed, you’d be forgiven for wondering what I was trying not to look at. Is the world at large simply too harsh a sight for my ocular capacity to handle? Perhaps somebody scrawled an interesting piece of graffiti on the inside of my eyelids when I wasn’t watching (which, according to the photos, is often). I’d like to think it was an epic battle between man and machine in which each dares the other to blink first. If, indeed, such a contest is taking place, it is clear that I am losing. Rather than a test of wills, I’d prefer to think of it as just bad timing. There’s no doubt about it – I’m a blinker. But rather than accept my fate, I need to know why. I must search for an explanation as to why I close my eyes the moment someone so much as loosens the buckle on their camera case.
At my father’s house, there are pictures of family members from now-distant generations on the wall. These photographs feature my relatives scrubbed and polished, wearing the best clothes their wardrobes possessed. Whilst nowadays you can’t so much as try on a pair of slacks without getting your photo taken, back then a picture was a pretty big event. They could be posing for an oil painting. Still as a statue, it was an occasion so serious that a smile is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were too busy trying not to blink and forgot. Eyes firmly fixed somewhere other than the camera, it is clear that I did not inherent my blinking from them.
On those same walls are pictures of my brothers, sisters and I. We too dressed up for our photos, but rather than the sombre faces that plagued previous generations, we were urged to smile as if we had fishhooks in our mouths. Wearing our Sunday best, we were forced to sit on various tree stumps at the behest of the photographer. (Why serious portraiture required you to sit on a tree stump, I’ll never know.) These pictures were always destined for framing, to be hung near the study or – if they were really good – over the piano.
Not all our photos were formal, though. There were plenty snapshots taken whilst we were growing up, but they’re tucked away in photo albums in the dark recesses of the study and are only produced for the entertainment of spouses. These snaps were mostly taken on family holidays when my father made us line up facing the sun to make the most of the light. He argued that it made for a better picture, but we were forever screwing our faces up against daylight’s gaze. Suddenly, I see things clearly. I have opened my eyes both literally and metaphorically – clamping my eyes shut in photos is something I learned to avoid staring at the sun.
Luckily, this learned behaviour is not hereditary. My nephews and nieces are frequently photographed – they don’t dress up, nor are they forced to sit on logs. They nearly always remember to smile – probably because they don’t have to sit on random tree stumps. But whilst the camera may never lie, it can certainly keep a secret when it chooses. My sister recently came across a photo taken five or so years ago in which my (then) six year old nephew Jake had, during a family portrait, flipped a ‘double’. Whilst he’s embarrassed by it now, his eyes are definitely open. And he is smiling. But my favourite photo features both Jake and his brother Brodie with their two year old cousin, Kennedy. As amazing as it may sound, the photo was taken by the two year old. It features the three of them crowded around a mobile phone smiling into the lens. They’re not dressed up or staring at the sun. They’re not even sitting on chairs, much less a tree stump. Their eyes are wide open and they just….look….. happy.
Each generation improves on the last. Having your picture taken was once such a luxury that you had to strain to show your best side. Now a two year old can do it. I like the idea that they can approach the whole thing with a confidence that we never had. The results speak for themselves. It makes keeping your eyes open worthwhile.